


Mortality

by boulderuphill



Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-10-19 03:42:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20650634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boulderuphill/pseuds/boulderuphill
Summary: Perhaps if his mother could see Patroclus now, stripping out of his tunic to avoid spoiling it with the blood of lesser men and baring a torso that might as well be sculpted by Hephaestus himself, she would reconsider his worth.-Achilles spends a day with Patroclus as he takes care of wounded solders.





	Mortality

**Author's Note:**

> achilles is such an idiot, i love writing him. also writing something that isnt an au is scary send help

Despite the physicians’ tent being in the center of the camp, and the flaps of its opening always being tied back, Achilles has not set his foot in it before. All he knows is that it is where Patroclus spends his days, and that through it he has gotten to know the names of the other men, nursing them back to health after their shortcomings in battle. 

“Are you sure this is alright?” Patroclus asks, and just the sight of the worried quirk in his brow makes warmth rise from the base of Achilles’ spine to his neck, gently tugging at the corner of his mouth until it curls into a fond smile.  
“I am sure,” he answers, and leaves golden rays of the morning sun as they step into the tent’s shade.

Perhaps if his mother could see Patroclus now, stripping out of his tunic to avoid spoiling it with the blood of lesser men and baring a torso that might as well be sculpted by Hephaestus himself, she would reconsider his worth. Even as the tent reeks of death, albeit another, slower kind than that of the battlefield, Patroclus stands like a beacon of light, mortal and alive in all the best ways. 

It isn’t long before they are accompanied by men in need of Patroclus’ aid. One after another they enter the tent, either on their limping own or carried by their brothers, and each wearing the same tired look of defeat. With nothing to do besides observe, Achilles simply splays himself on a wooden chair, making himself comfortable as he gazes upon Patroclus’ kingdom, and his naked back.

While the men’s wounds are different, they all cry. Big, round tears that mix with the blood and drool already soaking their beards as their wailing noises fill the tent. In those moments, they look like little more than abnormally large children, and least of all like proud warriors of Greece. 

It is disgusting, and Achilles attempts to imagine what it might be like, to be writhing in pain and humiliation like the men that last night so proudly relished in their killings. But he can not. He knows only the thrill of an arrow cutting through the air just inches from his ear, or the kicked up dust from a sword digging into the earth where he was standing moments ago. Even the heavy carriages and their horses are a source of excitement to him, always missing him by the length of an arm where others seem to be crushed at the smallest misstep. 

Some of the men die, often with Patroclus’ hands still pressed against their open wounds and their blood spilling between his fingers. The red of his hands smears on his dark skin, even staining his forehead when he attempts to wipe the sweat off it between patients.

Without as much as a sigh, Patroclus helps them all, tending to their wounds with a gentle touch that Achilles had previous thought reserved only for himself. It does not bother him, but the routine quickly grows predictable, and in his boredom he picks up a toothed saw from the basket of tools and turns it in his hand, inspecting it from every angle. On the inside of its handle is a smidge of brownish red, and he scrapes absently at it with his thumb.

One of the men, Achilles does not know his name, is carried into the tent with a spear still latched in his torso. Actually, he is barely a man yet, not much older than Automedon, and already he stands with one foot in the Underworld. On the table drenched with the fluids of those before him, he lies on his side as Patroclus rummages through his tools. The three of them are alone in the tent, Machaon otherwise occupied, and when Patroclus spins around in his search his eyes find Achilles’.  
”Give me that,” he says and gestures at the saw, “and hold this; it needs to be kept still.”  
It is a lie to claim that pity for the boy carries Achilles across the distance between them, but calling it curiosity seems cruel even to him. Perhaps it is just Patroclus’ voice, steady and authoritative, a remnant of the prince he once was, that takes him by the hand and guides it to the wooden handle of the spear shooting out of the boy’s back. 

The weapon is familiar in his grasp, like an extension of his arm, yet it does not thrill him like he has come to expect. A thousand spears just like this one, if not more, he has thrown during his years at Troy, and every single one of them has found a Troyan to impale. But this, the way the spearhead has already made its way between the ribs and the flesh it has torn open, is nothing more than the dull aftermath of another man’s work. 

With steady motions, Patroclus saws at the thick wood right below the spearhead and the boy whimpers, emitting small sounds that mellow with the passing of every second until they cannot be heard over the sound of metal scraping against wood. It seems to last an eternity, until the spear finally breaks with a crack under the pressure of Patroclus’ strong hands, but the boy is already gone. His eyes have slid shut and his mouth hangs open, not completely unlike Patroclus when he has fallen asleep after too much wine. 

”He is gone,” Achilles says, still holding the broken end of the spear in his hand.  
”I have eyes,” Patroclus answers, and there is a rawness to his voice that Achilles does not recognise. The tears that grace Patroclus’ cheeks leave dark trails in the dried blood from the previous men, and Achilles is not sure if he is crying over the loss of the boy or over his own failure.  
”There will be another,” he says in an attempt at comfort and Patroclus just shakes his head, wiping the tears with the back of his hand. 

But Achilles is not wrong, and they have barely lifted the boy off the table before another, an older man with an arrow buried deep in his thigh, is brought before them. Still clutching the handle, Achilles returns to the corner, and Patroclus does not ask for his assistance again. 

Towards the end of the day, when darkness has begun to settle outside, the stream of wounded subsides. Instead, they are visited by Briseis, carrying with her a large bowl of heated water and a piece of folded cloth.

If she is surprised to see Achilles, it does not show. She just greets him with lowered eyes and makes her way to Patroclus, who holds out his stained hands towards her. 

She takes Patroclus’ right hand in hers, cradling it as if it were a wounded animal, and brings the soaked cloth to his skin in a gentle motion. Tenderness emits from her, an effeminate energy that clouds Patroclus’ light and casts an ugly shadow over the sanctity of his work.  
“You are not needed,” Achilles declares before they are completely soaked in darkness, and it does not pass him by how her eyes search for Patroclus’, as if she expects him to protest. He does not, and when she has left the warmth settles once more in Achilles’ gut as he takes her place. 

The work should be tedious and indignant. It should make him groan and grit his teeth. But it is not, and it does not. Instead there is pride in how the blood rinses off a little more with each stroke, exposing the calloused skin beneath. As he works, his own fingers pick up some of the colour, rubbing against the cloth and dipping it in the darkening water of the bowl.  
When he brings the cloth to Patroclus’ cheek, dragging it along the trails of his tears, Patroclus closes his eyes. For just a second, he looks like the men on the table, covered in blood and completely still. 

*

At night they lie curled up in bed, sheets tangled between their warm bodies. Achilles’ fingers trace the outlines of Patroclus’ chest, trying to replace the vision of if painted in blood with what lies before him now. It reminds him of something he wishes to forget, and with a swift movement he climbs atop Patroclus, one knee placed on each side of his waist. From there, the rise and fall of Patroclus’ chest and the quickening pace of his heart lays bare before him.

If another man wished Patroclus dead, he would die.

Before the thought has fully formed in his mind, Achilles speaks. ”Your work for Machaon isn’t fitting,” he says, ”I do not want that for you.”

“Would you rather I wasted Chiron’s gifts?” Patroclus’ smile is careful, as if he is not yet sure of what they are actually speaking. It is true that Chiron trained him to do exactly this, but for the first time Achilles wishes he had not. If they were fighting side by side, at least Achilles could be his protection, half of him blessed by the Gods and the other blessed by the Greeks. ”Fight by my side instead. Win glory for-” he stops himself. For when I’m gone. The words rearrange themselves on the tip of his tongue, ”for later days.”  
Patroclus shakes his head, dark curls bouncing against temples that still carry traces of dried blood. ”You know I will not,” he says in soft defiance, and Achilles loves the way his lips wrap around such simple words. 

All it would take is another push, and he knows Patroclus would bite his tongue and agree. He has given Achilles everything, and there is no reason why this should be different. Tomorrow, and every day after that, Achilles would wrap Patroclus in his armour, just like Patroclus already wraps Achilles in his. 

But Achilles does not wish to push. In this moment, he wishes only to rest his hand on Patroclus’ chest and feel the beating of his mortal heart.  
“You are not like those men” he mouths, feeling Patroclus’ heartbeat against his palm like the wings of a caged bird. Achilles does not know what else to say, what words might better capture the feeling of powerlessness that is brewing in him. “Promise me that you remain what you are.”  
Perhaps Patroclus understands what Achilles does not, and heat blossoms from where his large hands squeeze Achilles’ thighs in reassurance, “I promise.” 

They do not dwell, Achilles’ pulse rising with each moment their bodies are pressed close and reminding him of things more urgent. Like the waves upon the shore where he greets his mother every morning, they crash together. 

“Your work today was not poor.” Achilles’ breathing is strained under Patroclus’ sturdy hands, exploring every crevice of his body that he usually keeps hidden beneath his armour. 

”I thought it was not fitting for me.” Playfulness colours Patroclus’ voice, and Achilles loves so much when he is like this, wishing nothing more than to steal kisses from that mischievous mouth.  
”It is not,” he manages between breaths and guides Patroclus’ hand further down, ”not as fitting as this.”


End file.
